Contrary Beliefs
by Yuki6
Summary: When Hermione and Draco team up, its a cat and mouse game against Voldemort. With lots of pie I might add.


**Contrary Beliefs**

**Summary: It's a cat and mouse game with Voldie against Hermione and Draco…with hot tea!**

**A/N: Well, I've only written one chapter, so I didn't know what to put for the real summary. Malfoy gets introduced to muggle inventions later, and lots and lots of pie. =)**

**Chapter One.**

**FLORENCE****, ****ITALY****. ****4:45 P.M.**

A young woman stepped onto one of Florence's bustling streets.  She pulled the long, frayed brown coat closer to her body, her thin violet scarf billowing out behind her.  It wasn't cold, but the old coat couldn't help her in that way anyway.  It was for reassurance; it didn't really matter.  Just as she didn't matter to the people around her.  They had places to go.  She did as well.  But strangely enough, these people meant something to her.  Their fates would soon lie in her hands. 

Despite her future importance in their lives, they didn't acknowledge her presence as they did to a man walking briskly beside her, wearing an expensive business suit.  He didn't acknowledge them, but he, instead, acknowledged a gorgeous woman in a posh mink coat.  Everyone, in turn, tipped their heads toward her.  She was a _lady_.  And they were inferior.  Savages.

The woman in the frayed coat stood silently, head bowed as if in deep thought.  She clutched something in her hand, her fingers curled around it stiffly.  The sky was clouded and gray, and the streets seemed quiet despite the number of people walking about.  She finally lifted her hazel eyes and began walking, looking this way ant that way for the building she sought.  She narrowed her eyes upon finding it, nestled between two shops.  The people seemed to herd away from it even faster, heads held high and feet moving quickly.  She stopped.  Glancing at the paper in her hand and thrusting it back into her pocket, her hand now sought something else.  She felt the familiar worn creases of it and shivered involuntarily.

She pulled out the pound note.  She soon found herself walking to that wide gap between the buildings.  And there, sitting on the ground, was a man with a tin cup set out before him and a scruffy brown dog clutched to his chest.  He had a tattered coat draped around his shoulders and a soiled white shirt peeked out from underneath.  The tin cup held nothing besides a few coins, an amount that could hardly have purchased anything.  The dog whined for food and looked at her with large, curious eyes.  The woman knew that the man would neither whimper nor look at her, despite.  His pride would not allow it, even if he did sit on the dirty streets of Florence impersonating a beggar …

She dropped the pound note into the tin cup.

"Hello, Granger."

… For he would always be Draco Malfoy.

**THE VELVET BAR. ****5:01 P.M.**

Hermione Granger unraveled her scarf, caramel-brown waves spilling out as they entered the bar.  She intently watched the person sitting close to her, who concentrated all of his energy on the dog in his lap.  The bartender came and went.  They didn't order.  After a few minutes, the bartender returned, wiping his hands on a clean, white towel.

 "Are you sure you don't want to order?"  He addressed his question to Hermione, ignoring the vagrant beside her.  Taking in the man's state of dress and tin cup, the bartender assumed he was too poor to buy anything and was too polite to ask him to leave.

"I'm sure."

 "Say, you look familiar – you from around these parts?"  The bartender ran his hand through his crop of black hair.  A drunken woman five seats down hollered for him, and he took his time stirring and shaking various liquids before smoothly sliding the finished product down the bar to her.

 "No, you probably wouldn't know me." She glanced at the blond man to her right, who pointedly ignored her.

 "So, what do you do for a living?" the bartender asked in another attempt to make small talk.

 "I'm an Auror," said Hermione smoothly.

The barman blinked.  "Pardon?"  He leaned in closer to hear her response.

"Damn agent," the blonde vagrant said gruffly. His voice was rough, and he sounded as if he hadn't spoken in a long while. The barman looked surprised at first, then shrugged and left the two alone, sensing the unspoken issues hanging in the air between them. Then the beggar rose, carrying the dog underneath his arm. He started for the door, but the woman shot out her hand and grabbed his shoulder tightly. 

"Damn agent," the blond vagrant said gruffly.  His voice sounded rough and as if he hadn't spoken in a long while, but his cover up for the muggle seemed to have worked.  The barman looked surprised at first, but then shrugged and left the two alone, sensing unspoken issues hanging in the air between them.  The beggar rose, carrying the dog underneath his arm.  He started for the door, but the woman's hand shot out and gripped his shoulder.

The beggar stiffened.  After a few moments of suppressed silence, he finally turned and looked at her.  His ordinarily mischievously wicked silver eyes seemed desolate, cold, and not as calculating as she had remembered.  It seemed as if he wasn't really there at all.  Hermione saw a mask and it annoyed her greatly.  He had smudges of dirt and grime all over his body, and looked as if he hadn't bathed in months, and he knew it.  But there were things that he didn't know.

 "I'm not playing a game, you know," she said softly, so that only he could hear.

 "That's why I left," he returned, wrenching his shoulder from her grip.  He made his way to the door again.

 "I've been looking for you for years.  I'm not letting you go now," Hermione said firmly, rising from her barstool and following him.

 "What do you wand, Granger?" Draco snapped, a hint of exasperation showing through.  He stopped walking but didn't turn and face her.  "What, then?  Information about the Dark Lord?  You know I left him.  I couldn't care less who wins.  You know that, too.  I know nothing about his new plans."

 "No.  I need you for something else … I need you to be my partner," she said, valiantly keeping her composure.  Internally she criticized his lack of former personality.  "I need someone to be my partner for this case," she added before he could reply.

 "Why didn't you pick Potter or Weasley?  You were the Golden Trio of Hogwarts," he sneered.

"They're working on other assignments.  There's no one else that can meet the requirements.  Those who can meet them are all dead, captured, or working on something that they can't leave," she said quietly, patiently.

 "So I'm your last resort, eh?"

 "No," Hermione said, gazing at his back with steady brown eyes.  "My first."

**FLYING TO ****LONDON****. ****6:54 P.M.**

 "So I was your first choice," Draco Malfoy repeated for what must have been the thirtieth time.  Finally he asked the question he had contemplated for more than an hour.  "Why?"  He sat across from her, the long aisle of red carpeting separating them like a river of blood.

Hermione sighed and readjusted herself in her seat.  She'd begun to regret bringing him a little.  Just a little.  Since he had refused to put the dog in a kennel when they boarded the plane, Hermione had acquired a private jet.  The Ministry of Magic had frequently denied her requests to seek out Malfoy, but finally let her go under the condition that she lie as low as possible; that is, she could use no magic.

When she looked at him, she winced.  For whatever reason, he was still as good-looking as the day he left school, for a man who probably hadn't eaten for weeks.

He had always been the "brat prince," prancing around Hogwarts in expensive robes and dragon-hide gloves.  He would probably always be one.  But it seemed that something had recently taken a swing at his ego.  He looked too solemn and quiet, usually just muttering to himself or his dog.

 "Why?" he repeated, interrupting her thought process.  He looked more than serious, with some sort of life in those dead eyes.  Hermione forced down the urge to smile.  "How was I, Draco Malfoy," he continued, "arrogant brat, previous Death Eater, your first choice?"

Hermione remained silent for a few moments.  She could see that Malfoy had begun to grow impatient.  _Let him wait_, she thought.  Impatience made that beautiful face twist; impatience made him glare at Hermione; and his impatience amused her.  _Let him _want _to join me.  Let his personality come out of that blasted mask._  She twirled her hair idly and looked away.

His patience was even shorter than Hermione had imagined.  "Well?" he sputtered.  "Why did you spend four years searching for me?  Didn't you have anything better to do?  Why didn't you give up on me?  I didn't _want_ to be found, you know!"  He glared ferociously at Hermione, blaming her for this impatience and anger.  He could never stand not knowing something, and usually violence solved that problem.  But Hermione was headstrong and wouldn't reveal anything if she didn't want to, even with violence in the picture.  Violence didn't work for Hermione; it was too messy.  But he could recall from the days when they were teenagers, and if she had the same weakness as before … of course …!

"Are you—" he began, a smug smirk fitted onto his face.

Are you still incredibly infatuated with me?"  His smirk grew wider as she raised an eyebrow.  He leaned back in his seat and the dog jumped onto another.  He stretched out languidly, like a tiger, and inspected his nails.  "But I suppose I can't really blame you." For someone who had erased all his files from the Ministry and concealed himself for four years, he seemed to still be in touch with his egotistical side.

 "What--?  Where did that come from, Malfoy?" she demanded hotly.  The tables had turned on her.  She was starting to feel uneasy.  God, how she hated him.

 "Call me Draco.  After all, we _are _working together, are we not?"  A laugh grated out of his throat as Hermione curled up and moved away from him.  "A working relationship should always be completely honest and open."

"I suppose you think _you _are my weakness?" she asked crossly, embarrassed at how he had managed to intimidate her.  He barked out a laugh.  "Well, what do you think my weakness _is_?"

Draco cocked his head to one side and surveyed Hermione for a few moments.  His gray eyes flashed and he smiled.  At when the plane started to touch down to ground, he uttered his answer so softly that Hermione had to strain her ears to catch it.  Then she slapped him.

**London, England. 8:24 P.M.**

 "You don't know anything about my love life?  And you _reek_ in enclosed spaces!" Hermione snapped, holding her nose as they left the taxi.  They had arrived in London.  And as Draco had guessed, Hermione had a classy, neat, and clean house.  Whatever road they were on, it was a road of luxury.  "Even the driver noticed it!"

 "You aren't quite prim and proper today, either," drawled Draco, casting an eye over her tattered garb.

Hermione glared at him.  "I _have_ been searching for you non-stop, you know," and instead of waiting for his response, she pulled a small silver key out of her pocket, starting toward the frond door.  _Maybe he's showing _too _much of his personality now,_ she thought darkly, as she heard his footsteps following behind her.

**HERMIONE'S HOUSE 8:31 P.M.**

Draco acknowledged her house with an appreciative raise of the eyebrows.  High ceilings; tall, elegant staircases, marble tiles, expensive imported Oriental rugs—the works.  It rather reminded Draco of his house—well, his former house, anyway.  He scowled at those memories and locked them away. Hermione of course, was rather fond of her expensive rugs, and had Draco's dog locked and left in the kitchen (rather spacious kitchen actually).

Hermione trotted up the steps easily, fighting back the urge to laugh when Draco slipped on the stairs, feeling a bit guilty.  When they had both made it up the top without too many scratches, she led him down a hallway.

The tall ceiling hung over top and he studied the elaborated wallpaper as they trudged down the hallway.  Finally they came to the end of the hallway.

"I thought you were an Auror," Draco drawled, raising an eyebrow. "Aurors have awful pay. How'd you get this lot?"

"I'm also a writer, and Aurors don't have awful pay," she sniffed.

"You're comparing to Longbottom's pay, aren't you? A broken Sneakoscope could detect dark magic faster than he could." He watched Hermione stiffen, and he the edges of his lips curved up.

"That's your room," she said shortly, gesturing at the door to the left.  "That one," she said, pointing to the door on the other side, "is mine.  And _that_," she said, pointing to the door on the back wall, "is the bathroom where I suggest you take a shower immediately."  She scowled at him, still angry at his comments.  Hermione bristled every time she remembered his claim that she had no love life.  Waspishly she told him had put fresh clothes in his dresser because she had expected him to turn up in Italy.

She left as quickly as she had come, tattered coat flying behind her.  Draco sighed and opened the bathroom door.  He took no notice of the lush décor.  What caught his eye was the mirror on the wall.  Draco cringed as he saw his reflection staring back at him.  His once-handsome face was caked in dirt, and the healthy sheen of pale blond hair was dulled and nearly gone.  His skin was even paler clean, but dirt clung to it mercilessly.  He groaned and began to remove his shirt.

**HERMIONE'S HOUSE: LIVING ROOM 9:30 P.M.**

Hermione sipped coffee quietly, curled up on a white couch, her feet propped up on a glass table, completely absorbed in her book.  Two smaller couches faced inward to the other sides of the tables.  Draco peered down at her from the staircase.  She wore a white silk blouse, and they both had on black pants.  He felt horribly overdressed.

He stomped down the stairs, facing her with arms crossed defiantly.  She glanced up and placed her coffee on the table.  He spread his arms out in a silent question, glaring at her.  She raised a mock-innocent eyebrow at him, pushing down an amused smile.

"Do you always dress this … this _classy_?  I feel so overdressed," he snapped, and Hermione smiled, noticing a distinctive peppermint smell about him.  This was, after all, Hermione Granger, who had said he reeked.

"Well, at least you don't stink now, and I guess you've used the aftershave, too."  She softly closed her book and laid it down, her eyes following him as he took a seat.  She stood up and poured him a cup of coffee and took another sip of her own, leaning back, closing her eyes, and savoring the aromas wafting throughout the room, but her eyes opened when he spoke.

"You never answered my question.  Why was I your first choice?"  His soft voice seemed to instinctively respect the silence.  He tasted the coffee with the tip of his tongue.  Still too hot.)

"For the same reason Voldemort and your father valued you," she said with equal softness.  "Let me tell you, it was hard as hell to track you down.  And you liked that, didn't you?"  She narrowed her eyes at his infuriating smirk.

"So what makes you think I won't leave you too?" he inquired, jealous of how she could drink the burning coffee with such comfort.

"I don't know.  I don't know why you left them, after all.  Are you ready to tell a story?" She locked eyes with him, taking a nice, long sip of her coffee mockingly.  He scowled at finally rested the cup on the table, pausing for a minute.

"Are you sure you want to hear it, Granger?"  Hermione formed a witty retort in her mind, but then she noticed that he spoke with no malice.  It was all strangely sincere.  Because even though they had hated each other, they didn't know each other at all.

Hermione put down her coffee cup as well.  They were equals.  She nodded and made herself comfortable.

He breathed a deep sigh and closed his eyes.  His brow wrinkled in concentration and Hermione looked on sympathetically.  Finally he began.  "It all started when I was born.  My father spoiled me when I was a kid, so naturally I adored him.  Ever since I was really little, I'd watched him torture countless Muggles, witches, and wizards in our old-fashioned dungeons.  I know the torture devices like the back of my hand.  One day, when I was seven, I asked him why he did it.  Why they screamed.

"He said that they were singing.  He said that we were the angels of death.  That was the day he finally deemed me old enough to teach me about what he really was, what my mother was, and what I was destined to be.  So he showed me his mark.  He said that the Dark Lord would come back into power someday and forgive them for helping the Ministry in an attempt to trick them.  I believed him.  I had no written bible.  My father was my bible; whatever he said was true.  We were the top race, and we were supposed to purify our world by taking out the weaker races, and those who supported them."

"That's not true!" Hermione interrupted, glaring at him fiercely.  "Muggles aren't any different—"

"Who's telling the story, Granger?  Do you want me to finish or not?" Draco snapped, glaring back.  Hermione fell silent, waiting impatiently.)

"So every day, whenever I felt like it, I would take a quill and draw the mark on my arm.  The skull and snake.  I grew so fascinated with it that I actually looked forward to being branded.)

"I was an exact replica of my father, so to speak, but younger.  But there turned out to be a glitch in the process of raising me.  I was spoiled; I couldn't take orders; that prevented me from being the 'good' Death Eater that he was.  I hardly had anything to do for my father and I didn't see why I should ever do anything for Voldemort.  I refused to be his footstool."  Draco laughed bitterly at memories Hermione couldn't see.  "If you were his right-hand follower, you had the lucky position of being the chair he sat on.  It's ironic how things turned out.  I was to be his ultimate Death Eater, his ultimate slave, and I left him.

"It was all going perfectly well.  I was the Ass Almighty's footstool and in line to be branded."  Noticing Hermione staring curiously at his left arm, he paused and scowled at her.  "No, I never got branded.  That's how they never found me.  And here I thought you got smarter, but I guess you lost your brains after Hogwarts."  Hermione's eyes snapped back onto his face angrily, but she stayed silent.)

"Now, the reason I didn't get branded was because, in all honesty, I didn't want that ugly bruise of a mark permanently tattooed on my arm. When I was little, the mark was removable, so I enjoyed having it on me. It thrilled me, but at the same time, I didn't know what it could do to me. On instinct, Voldemort could locate the man with that branded, or bring him in sharp pain with this. You know that the dark mark completes the connection with Voldemort. I refused to be his little puppet. My father was furious of course, as were the other Death Eaters, and I knew why. They hated that ugly scar as much as the next person. However, I managed to persuade them to wait until school finished."

"So that's why you didn't show up for the last day of school," Hermione murmured softly, her mouth working before her mind. She was about to continue with a question when a tennis-ball sized _thing_ unexpectedly came zooming into the room, bouncing off the every wall before finally landing on the palm of Hermione's outstretched hand. She had immediately recognized it as the Ministry owl that Ron had lent to them for emergency owls. Its furry, owlish presence disturbed Draco greatly, and after he looked into his cup of coffee, he noticed, with great displeasure, a tiny, feather floating at the top. He scowled at it, as if threatening the miniscule piece of down to get out of his coffee or be faced with the wrath of the Malfoy, but Hermione's sudden gasp distracted him from this. 

He looked over at her, and saw on her face the expression of someone who had just learned that they were going to die in the next twenty-four hours. He had seen that expression before.  "What?" he snapped irritably.

"No time to explain now," she said hastily, breaking out of her character and finishing off her coffee, which, Draco noticed disdainfully, had no feathers in it. "First, do you still have your wand?" she asked quickly, pulling out a quill and a sheet of parchment.

"What do you think?" Draco said flatly.

"I don't know," she shot back, finishing her note and tying it hastily to the leg of the owl. "Do you think I'm some sort of a Divination fan?"

"First, you tell me what in the world is going on." Draco said impatiently.  He had never seen Hermione Granger have such a tremendous mood swing before. He had also never seen Hermione Granger chug down a cup of coffee in one gulp, either. He sat back and made himself comfortable to show her that he clearly had no desire to move unless she explained what was going on.  

"_They_ know," she said darkly, shooing the tiny owl away.

"Who the hell are they? What do _they _know? Stop with the mind games already, Granger!" he snarled at her, every ounce of patience gone.

Hermione stood up, looked at him with large, calculating eyes, and hissed back smoothly, "Voldemort knows you're here and alive."


End file.
